


Clashing Countries

by ArchduchessofBooks, Catrowline



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-22 23:53:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21310684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArchduchessofBooks/pseuds/ArchduchessofBooks, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catrowline/pseuds/Catrowline
Summary: There is a legend few people know.It has been retold and twisted and adapted until few can recognise it. People thought the original lost in history.Until now.Here is a tale of love and war, of friendship and hatred, a tale of two clashing countries who created something beautiful out of chaos.Here it is, reader. We’ve written it just for you.Ten years before the story starts, a woman screams in the dead of night.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

_ There is a legend few people know. _

_ It has been retold and twisted and adapted until few can recognise it. People thought the original lost in history. _

_ Until now. _

_ Here is a tale of love and war, of friendship and hatred, a tale of two clashing countries who created something beautiful out of chaos. _

_ Here it is, reader. We’ve written it just for you. _

** _…_ **

_ Ten years before the story starts, a woman screams in the dead of night. _

It was a dark, starless night, and the moon was covered by clouds that promised a storm. It was a night when you looked over your shoulder, afraid of what you might see, when even the smallest noise caused you to jump out of your skin.

It was a perfect night for evil to walk.

And evil was walking, in the form of a small, rat-like man, wrapped in a black cloak and clutching a small vial made of dark green glass in one hand. He slipped through two wooden doors and found the royal bedroom.

There, the woman on the bed slept alone, the curve of a swollen belly showing beneath the covers. The pregnant Queen had retired early, and her husband the King was in the palace nursery with the sickly little Princess, barely nine years of age.

The man crept closer to the bed, pulling the cork from the vial as he did so.

He had miscalculated. The sound of the cork coming free from the bottle was like a pistol shot in the silent room.

The Queen gasped and sat up. When she saw the man, she screamed.

An answering yell sounded down the stone corridor, along with rapid footsteps, but the little man was quick and the Queen was impeded by the baby. The man forced the Queen’s mouth open and poured the vials contents into her mouth before pinching her nose shut. The Queen struggled, but the man was relentless, and even the best warriors are in need of air.

The queen swallowed just as the King burst into the room. 

“Lily!” he cried. “_ LILY!” _

He rushed for his wife, convulsing on the bed, who barely managed to choke out “_ James…” _before her eyes rolled back and she went limp.

The small man tried to escape, but he was stopped by two figures at the door, two men who grabbed his arms. One, with long black hair and shirtless, prised the vial from the man’s grip and sniffed it. He recoiled.

“Cyanide.” was all he said. He offered it to the other man. “Smell the almonds.”

The other man, who was brunette and heavily scarred, blanched. “Pamela Lovegood named it only yesterday. It is one of the strongest poisons she knows.”

Two young boys suddenly skidded into the room, one with black hair and holding a small dagger. The other boy was blonde and close on his heels.

“Mother?” said the boy with the dagger. “Mother?”

He went close to the bed, then seemed to register the Queen’s limp body, the foam crusting her lips, the Kings bowed head and shaking shoulders.

“Mother!” the boy cried, then turned to see the small man, held by the two others and looking at the body on the bed with a maniacal grin.

“You’ve killed her!” he cried, and lunged, dagger in the air.

The two older men tried to twist away, but the young blonde boy threw himself in front of his charging friend, grasping him around the waist and gasping “Harry, _ no! _”

“He killed my mother!” the black haired boy sobbed, still trying to lunge. The blonde boy was larger than him, however, and managed to hold his ground.

“I know, but you aren’t him, Harry! Don’t stoop to his level!”

The boys struggled for a moment longer before the king’s hand landed on Harry’s shoulder, and he drew him into a tight embrace, murmuring brokenly “Shhhh, Harry, shhh. There’s nothing we can do, my son.”

Slowly the fight drained from Harry, and he sagged against his father and sobbed in earnest.

“Take him to the dungeons.” the king said to his two advisors, still holding his son. “Ensure Snape knows just what has occured tonight.”

The two men, with a rough jerk, pulled the murderer from the room.

Only a few minutes later, a small voice was heard at the doorway.

“Papa?”

The little Princess, nine years old, stood at the doorway in her white nightgown, taking in the scene with wide hazel eyes much like her father's.

James managed a soft smile for his daughter and held out his arm.

“Come here, Hermione.”

The child slowly crossed the floor and let her father wrap his arm around her.

“Papa, is Mama okay?”

Her only answer was her father’s and brother’s sobbing.

_ A month later, the king’s broken heart gave out, and his children were left to ascend the throne by themselves. There was gossip they would fail, that they were far too young. _

_ They were wrong. _


	2. The Proposal of the Princess

King Harry of Mirandor stared dejectedly at his calculations. No matter how hard he tried, what he changed, what strategies he used, the result was always the same. His tent rattled in the wind; horses whinnied, men yelled, people walked past. No one knew what Harry knew.

They were losing, and there was nothing they could do about it. King Ronald, of Chespizia, outsmarted Harry in every way. Harry’s only advantage was the number of soldiers he had; it was what had permitted him to protect Mirandor thus far. But it wouldn’t be enough. The chasm of Sylven was close, and Harry’s troops were trapped between the chasm and the Chespizian army.

Unless he could figure out a solution and fast, this war was a death sentence.

Harry’s tent flap lifted, and a young woman in her twenties entered. Her heavy, bushy hair was raised in a simple bun, and Harry was amazed that it held; usually, her hair tumbled down moments after she attempted to put it up.

“We’re losing, aren’t we, Harry?” she said softly, coming up next to him. Harry nodded sombrely. He held his sister’s hand tightly.

“I don’t know what to do, Hermione. I should admit defeat before all our soldiers die for us, and I do not want that. We can’t ask that of them.” With his free hand, he rubbed his face in an attempt to shake the sorrow out of his system.

Hermione sighed. “I have an idea. I know you despise it, but it’s the only option, apart from bringing humiliation to Mirandor and death to the people.”

Harry blanched, already knowing what his sister was going to say. “No, Hermione- I won’t sell you off to Chespizia like a piece of meat, even for the benefit of my country!”

Hermione smiled sadly. “But Harry, you wouldn’t be _selling_ me. I would be going of my own free will. Make King Ronald an offer he can’t refuse: my hand in marriage, in exchange for peace between our two kingdoms.”

“Hermione…”

“Harry, do it. It’s the only way. I would be the olive branch between Mirandor and Chespizia, I would be the ambassador of our country,” she said, sinking to her knees, pleading with her brother. “Father and Mother would-”

“We don’t know what they’d say, Mimi,” hissed Harry, “since that wretch of a man took them

from us!”

“Call him by his name, Harry. Peter Pettigrew rots in our dungeons. We need to keep him as he is, a murderer and a prisoner, not a nameless, faceless boogeyman. Fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself,” she finished sagely.

Harry turned away from his sister, not wishing to acknowledge the wisdom in her statement. Hermione rolled her eyes and tried a different tactic. Her brother was stubborn when he wished to be.

“If you wont listen to me, then ask Uncle Remus. And Advisor Malfoy. They will tell you if my proposition is the best option or not.”

Harry smirked sadly. “You know, Mimi, I really hate it when you have the best arguments.”

Hermione stood up, her leather skirt and trousers shifting at her movements. “I know, Harry. I learned at Mother’s knee how her brain worked, but you were blessed with her heart and Father’s loyalty to our people.”

Harry smiled, leaving his seat. “It’s unfair, isn’t it? But I suppose it makes us an excellent team, which might be why I’m so reluctant to send you away to King Ronald. Other than the other obvious reason.”

“Which is?” asked Hermione, leading her brother out of his tent, stopping to smile at the soldiers who saluted them respectfully on the way to their uncles’ tent.

“That you’re my sister, Hermione. I don’t want to be apart from you.”

“Neither do I, Harry, but sometimes we must make sacrifices for the sake of the greater good.”

Harry sighed, scratching at his stubble absentmindedly. “When you say that, you remind me of that colleague of McGonagall’s that she would tell us about to scare us. What was his name… Dumbledore?”

They reached their destination fairly quickly after they fell silent, and just walked, side to side, content in just being in each other’s company.

The tent they were headed to was occupied by two men, their Uncles, Sirius and Remus Lupin-Black. The men had been married for the last twenty years, lovingly raising the two in lieu of their good friends and now happily advising them in adulthood.

Remus was Hermione’s Godfather whereas Sirius was Harry’s, and they trusted the older men’s judgment and advice every time they deemed it necessary to give it to the younger siblings.

Which was why Hermione and Harry needed their uncles’ input on the decision they were arguing upon.

“Harry! Hermione!” exclaimed Sirius as he saw the royal siblings approach. The older man’s long black hair flew in the wind, not unlike how Hermione’s would when she let it down (or, usually, when it fell out of whatever updo she put it in). “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“We need your help, Uncle,” said Harry with a wry smile playing on his thin lips. “May we go into your tent for privacy?”

“Of course, Harry, you needn’t be so formal about it, either,” said Remus, his head poking out of the tent comically. “Come on in.”

The trio pushed the flap open and entered the tent. Once the four had greeted one another happily, with hugs and pats on the back, Sirius spoke up.

“So, Harry, what do you need our help with?”

“We’re losing the war, Sirius, and the solution Hermione came up with is a good one, although I thoroughly despise it.”

Remus sighed. “You want to offer your hand in marriage in exchange for peace,” he guessed. Hermione took a step back, startled.

“How did you know?” she exclaimed, her eyes wide. Remus smiled, a mischievous and dangerous glint in his eyes, highlighting the scars jarring his face from the bear who had nearly mauled him to death as a child.

“Don’t forget, Hermione, that I’m the one who taught you and Harry everything you know about politics. Moreover, I know how your mind works, just as I know how Harry’s works because I helped you form your thoughts.”

“So you agree, then?” Harry asked.

“Agree to what?” came a new voice.

Advisor Malfoy, his blonde hair slicked back into a ponytail and wearing his usual uniform of a grey suit, walked through the tent flap. His heavy moustache was limp from the heat.

Harry, who had advised his advisor on the benefits of a lack of mustache several times, turned to face his friend. “Hermione has hit on an idea to stop this war.”

“A marriage.” Hermione broke in. “Specifically, a marriage of me to King Ronald of Chespizia.”

Malfoy made a supposed-to-be-dignified hum and stroked his moustache while everyone else waited. Despite Malfoy’s obsession with his moustache and his slight predilection towards pomposity, he was a good man whom Harry and Hermione trusted with their lives.

“The idea is a good one, Hermione.” Malfoy said. “I believe King Ronald will accept, but I warn you: do not send a messenger. Chespizia respects strength, its king most of all, and there are few power plays as bold as waltzing into the enemy camp waving a white message flag with a proposal of political marriage.”

Hermione nodded, then stuck her head out of the tent and waved down a passing soldier.

“Gather your regiment together and ready mine and my brother’s horses. Ready another for Advisors Malfoy and both Lupin-Blacks. Hurry.”

The soldier saluted and hurried away while Hermione ducked back into the tent and turned to her family.

Harry looked like he wanted to say something, but Hermione held up her hand.

“Harry, you know if there was another way, I would take it.”

Harry sighed. “I know. I just wish that for once, Hermione, you weren’t right.”

_ ******* _

The ride to the enemy camp was uneventful. Hermione enjoyed riding, and she tried to find distraction in her horse’s movements and the sound of thundering hooves. It was hard to completely push her possible upcoming marriage out of her mind, however, and all too soon the ride was over and they approached the enemy camp.

Chespizian soldiers rode forward to intercept them. When they saw the white messenger flag and the insignia of House Potter on the horse’s breast collars, they stood aside and let them pass.

They rode at a brisk trot through the camp before Hermione drew her horse up short upon sight of the command tent.

Hermione looked through the crowd from her horses back and beheld the rest of her life.

King Ronald was tall and broad: a warrior’s physique with a warrior’s posture. He was wearing a dark blue royal jacket and waistcoat, the lining, buttons, and lapels shining gold, and his boots, from what she could see, were black and fit his muscular legs well. One hand, gloved in white to match his trousers, rested on the pommel of a sword, strapped to his waist with a gold-studded belt.

His hair was bright red and long, swept back beneath his crown. She couldn’t tell what colour his eyes were from this far away, but she could tell they were fixed on her horse.

Without looking back, she reached for Harry’s hand, feeling him squeeze it just once, giving her comfort the best way he could. Harry was all she had since her parents' deaths, and a part of her, the part that was still nine-years-old, wanted to curl up, hide her face in his jacket, and go back home.

She knew that it was impossible. With her hand, her wisdom and her body, she was buying peace for her people and her brother, and it was that thought that gave her the strength to dismount.

Feeling enemy soldiers eyes on her was intimidating, but she was a princess and she was used to being stared at, so she lifted her chin and walked down the aisle of people, the crowd parting for her until she stood at the front of the command tent, looking up at the king.

There was a long moment when he stood there looking at her, and then he walked through the grass towards her. Standing next to him, Hermione barely came up to his shoulder.

He extended his hand. “Princess. A pleasure.”

Hermione took it, keeping her face as blank as his. “The pleasure is all mine, Your Highness.”

His eyes were blue, she noted. The colour of the sky above them.

For a king that seemed so cruel, his eyes were kind.

“You come waving a white flag.” Ronald stated. “What message do you bring? A missive of surrender? You could have sent a messenger alone, although we are honoured by your presence. Truly, for such a small, weak-seeming kingdom, you’ve done remarkably well.”

Hermione could practically hear Harry bristle behind her.

“Not of surrender, Your Highness, but of negotiation.”

“Negotiation?”

Harry dismounted, and when Hermione glanced at him he had forced his face into a painful smile.

“May we enter your command tent? We have much to discuss… away from prying ears.”

He shot a meaningful glance and the surrounding soldiers, trying valiantly, but in vain, to pretend they weren’t listening, returned to their bustling, clearing their throats and whistling innocently.

Ronald studied them, then stepped aside and swept his arm towards his tent. “You may enter, Highnesses.”

Hermione gracefully lifted her chin, stepping alongside her brother, preceding King Ronald into his tent.

She quietly took in the grim, spartan state in the inside, consisting of a chair she guessed he used as his throne. Battle plans were tacked to the walls of the tent and strewn across the floor. Beside the throne leaned a massive sword, still in its scabbard, and extra armour was being polished by a page boy in the corner.

Ronald snapped his fingers and sent the boy away, then turned to settle in his throne, facing them.

“Well then, Highnesses? Present your points of negotiation.”

Hermione stepped forward.

“It’s quite simple. Our point of negotiation is me.”

One of Ronald’s eyebrows raised and he gestured for her to continue.

Hermione took a deep breath.

“My proposal is this: a political marriage. You attacked Mirandor: clearly then, you see it’s worth. An alliance between us is profitable both for yourself and for us. If you accept this proposal, you stop your attack and retreat within your borders. Give us two months time to bury our dead and explain to our people. Then, I shall come again to Chespizia and marry you.”

Ronald studied her, then turned to Harry with a raised eyebrow.

“You consent to this?”

Harry lifted his chin, staring fearlessly into the taller man’s eyes.

“This was Hermione’s idea. You will understand soon, Highness: my sister is always right. You would not have attacked Mirandor without good cause: your reputation is not that of a king who loves war. We did nothing to provoke you, so you see something in my kingdom you want. My guess is our gold mines. Accept this proposal and I will give you an equal share.”

Ronald looked Harry over, then gave a single nod.

“Your reputation as a diplomat and as a fair, just man are indeed true.”

His eyes slid back over to Hermione.

“If I agree to this proposal, Princess, you must understand several things. My family is very large, and my people love parties and festivals. I will expect you to make an appearance at all of these and family dinners and trips unless you are unwell. I wish you to take an equal share in governing the kingdom: if it shall be yours, I would hope you would take an interest in improving it. I do not expect you to obey me in all things, I believe a woman has the right to her own mind, but let this be known: if you betray Chespizia, this alliance is over, and I will treat you as a traitor.”

Hermione looked him in the eyes. “Understood, but there are things you must understand as well. My brother is all I have. I want to be able to go home to Mirandor at the very least thrice a year to see him, or have him come up to Chespizia. I will keep some of my traditions and beliefs and celebrate them alone if I must, but I wish you not to be resistant in allowing me this. I wish you to be an attentive, loving father to our children. And if you betray this alliance in any way, I will take my revenge and burn Chespizia to the ground.”

Ronald nodded, once. “Understood.” he said, and in the blue eyes of the king Hermione saw a healthy dose of respect.

Ronald stood. “Consider this war over. I will call my men back. You have your two months as you asked. I will send for you at the end: bring your brother if you wish. I accept your conditions, Princess, if you accept mine.”

He held out a hand for Hermione to shake. His hand was warm and much larger than her own.

“I accept, Your Highness.”

_ ******* _

Word got back to the Chespizian palace very quickly.

“Ronald’s done WHAT!?” gasped Princess Ginevra of the House of Weasley, sitting straight up as the messenger relayed the news. She regretted this action when her abdomen exploded in pain.

The apothecary looked up from where she had been staring dreamily out of the window, a daisy from her ever-present crown of flowers dangling in her eyes.

“I told you not to move.” she pointed out. “You’ll rip your stitches, and that means you’ll let Nargles in. Or Wrackspurts. Or both. You don’t want both.”

Ginny gritted her teeth and lay back down. “How much longer must I be stuck here, Luna? Clearly Ron needs me there on the battlefield, or he’ll make another stupid decision like a POLITICAL MARRIAGE.”

“Don’t shout.” Luna Lovegood admonished, coming over to check her bandages. “You’ll startle Seamus, and if he blows something else up again I fear what your mother will do to him.”

Ginny winced. “Is Father involved?”

Luna tipped her head to the side. “I’m not supposed to say…”

In the other room of the apothecary’s chambers, something exploded.

“...but yes.” Luna finished, smiling reassuringly. “I’m sure it’s not that bad, this time.”

The door flew open, and King Arthur burst through, eyebrows and beard smouldering.

“Er, Ginny dear… you don’t suppose your mother heard that, do you?”

“ARTHUR!” came a yell from upstairs, echoing down the stone corridors. “WHAT WAS THAT?”

Arthur furiously began patting out his beard and eyebrows as he raced for the door, calling up “Nothing, Molly dear, absolutely nothing!”

Ginny winced again, both for her father and because her wound was aching again. Maybe she had ripped a few stitches.

Luna mildly began unwrapping the bandages to check. “You know, I was born in Mirandor. It’s not such a bad place.”

Ginny sighed. “But we’ve never even met Princess Hermione…”

She didn’t voice it, but she was thinking of the last time Ron had been close to marriage. Lady Lavender of Ravenna had done terrible things to her brother’s heart and reputation.

“Hermione’s lovely.” Luna told her. “And King Harry, by all accounts, is a good king and a good man. Besides, this marriage will bring profit to both our kingdoms, and you’ll gain a sister. That’s not so bad.”

Ginny huffed.

Luna peered at her closely. “Are you suffering from exposure to a Wheezle? They can cause negative feelings.”

Ginny couldn’t help a small smile.

Suddenly, Dean Thomas burst in from the corridor, rushed across the room, and threw open the door to the room where Seamus was still hiding.

“What the HELL happened in here?! Seamus, the queen is on the warpath, she might actually kill you this time!”

Ginny sighed. It looked like the duty of saving Seamus Finnegan fell to her, once again.


End file.
